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I’VE WITNESSED ROD RAGE ON THE FISHING BANKS!

EVERY time I go fishing I expect to catch fish. But every time I do get onto the bank there is, of course, no guarantee that I will actually net something!

My chances are improved dramatically as I keep an eye on the weather, try to select the right venues and only go out when I know there is a very slim chance of blanking.

But over the years I’ve learned that even the best of anglers don’t always catch. We are at the mercy of venue, weather and, most importantly, the fish.

I’ve always tried my best to ensure I have never been water-licked or actually managed to learn something from my trip.

I can’t always say the same about some of my fellow anglers – but at least they have given me a laugh! No prizes to anyone who spots themselves here…or spots someone they know!

I remember years ago on the Witham when a member of one of the country’s best teams drew an area with some bream form, although the fish were very, very finicky.

Ever suffered a bout of rod rage…?

After waiting ages he struck at his first bite and…snapped off! The second bite followed the same pattern, then the next, and the next and he kept hurling his rod to the deck.

Finally he hooked a good bream. As he played the fish to the bank it came off! His rod went over his knee and he snapped it in two, packed up and went home.

Now if you raised a smile at that little escapade listen to this episode during a club match on nice lake that held lots of small fish, plus nice bream and tench.

I covered all of my bases, long pole short line, whip, waggler, feeder – and the guy in the next peg who, I hasten to add was noted for a suspect temperament, followed suit as he was aware I had a bit of form on the venue.

The whistle went, I fed – he fed – I picked up my long pole – he picked started on the same attack.

In no time I was catching. He got snagged up a tree, ripped off his rig in the brances and then jettisoned is pole over the fence behind us. I had to smirk.

Out went his waggler – well only as far as the branches! Crash, down came a branch, along with his end gear that became detached from his main line.

Wallop…over the fence went his waggler rod, complete with reel. I had to bite my tongue.

I was still catching, now on the whip, between the laughter. He picked up his whip, hooked a small silver fish, unhooked it and then launched his rig over is head and back to the water. It never made it.

He was now well on is way to decorating what was looking like a Christmas tree. And the area behind the fence was looking more and more like a tackle shop.

As he launched his feeder I was worried I might need new pants for the trip home. I really was laughing with my hand over my mouth.

You know what comes next…the feeder cracked off, the rod and reel went over the fence and he stormed off round the lake. I kept on catching.

About half an hour later he returned, put a new rig on is pole and started again. It lasted a couple of puts in before the tackle was trashed. He packed up and went home I won the section.

Just a few weeks later we fished a club match on a small pond were everyone could see each other. An hour in everyone had caught – except the tackle destroyer.

He threw his seat box into the lake, at which point one of the other lads asked for any of the gear he didn’t want!

Talking of free gear reminds me of a festival on Inniscarra Reservoir in Ireland. My mate Kev and I drew the same section with one guy between us.

It was a tackle graveyard. I lost 15 feeders in no time and had to go for a walk to cool down, steam was coming from my ears.

Kev was just around a corner from me and he’d had the same problem. The guy between us had snagged up a few times but he’d also hooked some really big fish that had snapped him off, strange on a venue where the best fish were usually bream.

Anyway I got back to the fishing, found a spot where I didn’t snag and snared a few bream. Kev had to go for a walk next and chatted to the guy between us who was a bit puzzled about the big fish he was hooking and losing.

Feeling sorry for Kev, who had also lost a lot of end tackle, he offered up some of his home made feeders. Kev had to stifle the laughter as he took a feeder and continued along to my peg.

The home-made feeders were made up from short lengths of copper piping which had been polished up to make them look nice. It appeared the venue’s pike had also taken a shine to them!